The evening over, we exchanged our farewells and I made my way to the study to sketch out some cursory notes on an article I have been writing for The Mind, on the advantages of excessive feeding in the treatment of certain cases of neurasthenia and hysteria. Before long the hallway clock had struck eleven and it was time for me to perform my exercises then – with some trepidation – to go to bed, administering myself a mild barbiturate before I did so.
The Feast of Roses
I had always set the greatest store by an energetic morning walk. The fresh air combined with steady rhythm of my steps seldom failed to leave me feeling ready for the challenges of the coming day. This was never truer than in the rural surroundings of Devon County Asylum. For thirteen years I held the position of Medical Superintendent, an activity which - while bringing with it constant tensions and setbacks - as tragically demonstrated by the suicide of my long-time acquaintance Doctor Finch at Brislington House - I took great satisfaction in performing. Each morning before my working day commenced, regardless of the weather, I would leave the accommodation I kept in the grounds and head in the direction of the airing court, from where I would pace at speed along the outer perimeter and through the orchard, rounding the nearby farmer's fields and finally bringing my journey to an end at the great door of the main building. When I moved to Marylebone I sought the same sense of solitude and briskness in Regent's Park, only a short distance from my home. Although it was almost impossible to ever be truly alone amongst London's multitudes, this routine at least provided me with the chance to invigorate my body and order my thoughts.
On entering the park via Chester Terrace that morning I found it markedly busier than I would usually expect, lively with people of all ages dressed as if for a special event. Approaching the Royal Botanic Gardens I happened across a stationary row of coaches brightly decorated with red roses. A marquee was in the process of being erected on a nearby stretch of grass and multicoloured paper lamps were being hung in the trees. Asking a nearby woman the purpose of all this I was informed that preparations were being made for something called The Feast of Roses, a parade due to take place later that afternoon. Thanking her I changed direction and took my handkerchief from my top pocket. Already my hay fever was beginning to bother me. A man with daffodils poking out of his top hat walked by: judging by his expression he was greatly amused by his own appearance.
Leaving the hubbub behind I spotted a tall young woman coming towards me from the direction of Saint Catherine's Lodge, attractively dressed in a plain gored skirt and a masculine tie, her hair tied beneath a straw sailor hat. With one hand she was pushing a perambulator while the other supported a white parasol, the handle of which rested on her shoulder. I was quite taken by her remarkable looks and found I had to resist the urge to stare: something that had not happened to me for many years, physical beauty having long ago lost its hold over me.
As we drew level the wind gathered strength and surged into a sustained burst, threatening to tear the parasol from her. A second gust turned the shade inside out. Seeing she was battling to keep hold of it while also preventing the pram from rolling away I naturally stepped in to provide assistance. No sooner had I grasped the crook handle, however, than it was pulled from my fingers. Together we watched it bounce and scrape along the gravel, making its way towards one of the park's many ornate fountains. Setting after it I left my business bag with the young woman, walking at speed but unwilling to embarrass myself by breaking into a run. With dismay I saw the contraption lift over the edge of the basin and tumble into the water. Arriving at the fountain's edge I reached for it using the full extent of my arm but only managed to push it farther away. It was clear I was going to have to climb onto the stone rim. For balance, I held my arms out to my sides, the tails of my frock coat flapping wildly about my legs.
“Please don't trouble yourself so,” said the lady, who had moved the pram over to me.
To reassure her I was happy to help I raised my hand – it was, after all, my fault the parasol had ended up where it was – but put it instantly down when I began to lose my equilibrium. Twice I feared I would spill headlong into the water but, thankfully, I managed to suffer nothing worse than a soaked boot. It was sheer luck that the wind changed direction and delivered the handle to my waiting hand. My dismount was less than elegant.
The woman offered her thanks. She was almost the same height as me, with blue-green eyes and a proud young face. Behind her, pink and white blossoms whirled across the pathway, shaken from the trees, while two muscular black mares trotted slowly by: “I really am extremely grateful.”
I shook the water from the shade and sheepishly handed it back.
Again, she thanked me: “You are very kind.”
“Not at all. It is a pleasure. I only hope it isn't damaged beyond repair.”
“I wish there were some reward I could offer you.”
“No, no. That I could be of any assistance at all, however small, is reward enough... Well. Good day to you.”
“Good day, sir.”
Once we had parted company I checked my watch. Time had gotten away from me. My right boot squelching, I set off for my appointment in Wandsworth. It was far later than I had imagined.
Mr Utterson's Room
“I was most encouraged by your letter. From what you say I think it would not be irresponsible to suggest your husband may yet make a full recovery.”
I had recently arrived at the Utterson residence, having been met by their landau at Wandsworth Station and taken on the short journey to their detached villa. On opening the garden gate I was greeted by a grey kitten that rubbed insistently against my ankles, pestering me to be stroked. Lifting its body up with the end of my boot – now mercifully dry – I moved it out of my way.
At the door I was greeted by a butler of extraordinary girth, who led me with wheezing breaths through a high-roofed hall paved with flags and into the drawing room, where the lady of the house was waiting. I would never normally have considered visiting a private patient but Mrs Utterson had written to me on the advice of an old colleague from Devon, so I felt unable to refuse. I did not intend to waste much time over the matter.
She replied to my statement uncertainly, staring at her large, freckled hands where they rested in her lap: “It saddens me to tell you that things have changed since I wrote those words.”
We were sat on a Chesterfield running parallel to a large bay window, behind a low table on which were displayed several copies of Penny Magazine. An enormous and plump-leafed rubber plant dominated the corner nearest the door. Glancing about the room I felt satisfied the family's decision to take Mr Utterson out of Highgate Infirmary had been the correct one. A person accustomed to these rich surroundings could only suffer in that institution's stark and impersonal wards, whatever my less enlightened peers might say about the shortcomings of domestic care.
Mrs Utterson was woman in her thirtieth year, thickset with salt-and-pepper hair and prim, puckered lips. A prominent black mole spoiled the line of her chin. Despite her sitting bolt upright with her round shoulders placed firmly back, her fatigue betrayed itself in her pallor.
“He has been in very low spirits. He had been progressing so excellently since he came home: venturing out of his room, even sharing a meal or two with me. Privately I had begun to hope he would soon be returned to his former self. Now, without warning, he has retreated once more. It is almost as if we never sought help at all.”
“Have you any idea what might have triggered this setback?”
“I only wish I could say. I cannot make sense of his behaviour. He locks himself away all day and night, refusing to speak to the servants. His attitude towards me is ill-tempered and dismissive. He cannot bring himself to look me in the eye.”
“And how long has this been going on for?”
Covering her face, she began to cry. Waiting for her to collect herself I took the opportunity to examine a painting that hung over the fireplace, depicting a locatio
n I was certain I recognised but was unable to place: a packhorse bridge over a quiet river, backgrounded by trees.
“It has been difficult for me also, Doctor Renfield,” she said at last, when she had regained her composure.
“I understand.”
“Since my husband was forced to give up his legal practice life has been nothing but a struggle for us. It is only a matter of time before our savings run out. The servants are unhappy working in such an environment, with their employer nowhere to be seen. I worry they will seek alternative employment and leave me unable to find replacements. People on the street stare at me, Doctor Renfield. They are cold and unkind. They must know what has befallen us. It is barely tolerable.”
My attention was again drawn by the painting. It irritated me that I could not place the scene. Pulling myself away from this distraction I addressed the matter at hand: “In my experience, which I can assure you is considerable, those suffering from melancholia are often prone to setbacks. These relapses can be distressing and disheartening, but they are also transitory. We must not let them waylay us.”
It was decided we should go upstairs to see the patient. Mr Utterson's room was situated on the third floor, at the end of a long corridor lined with what seemed to me to be an excessive number of flower bouquets. The lady of the house led the way, hesitating at the door before living it a gentle knock. The sound of hurried movement came from within: a chair sliding across the floor, a drawer pushed closed, followed by Mr Utterson's voice: “Is that you, May?”
“Yes, Charles. Doctor Renfield is with me. Please unlock the door; he has come to see you.”
“I will not be receiving visitors today.”
I kept my voice low to prevent the occupant from hearing: “How is he able to lock the door?”
“He has a key.”
“This must be taken from him as soon as possible. It could be dangerous. Explain that he may close the door if he wishes, but it must remain unlocked at all times.”
Something brushed against my trouser leg. Looking down I saw the grey kitten from the front garden, vying again for my attention.
Mrs Utterson gave another knock: “He has come all the way from Marylebone. You remember I mentioned he would come?”
“Of course I remember. Kindly stop talking to me as if I'm a child.”
“Please, Charles. He has come a long way.”
“Then I'm afraid he has wasted his time.”
“Don't embarrass me, please. Open the door.”
After a few moments the keys turns in the lock.
The kitten entered before me. Inside the air was tropically hot and pungent with cigar smoke. Thick green velvet curtains were drawn over the window, starving everything of sunlight. Evidently the room, now containing an unmade bed, had once served as a study. Two of the walls were lined with shelves crammed with books. Opposite the window hung a sombre piece of tapestry representing Cleopatra cradling an asp, beneath which sat an ornate writing desk. A cheroot smouldered in its ashtray.
His back half turned to us, the man of the house made a show of trying to locate some misplaced volume. Even at first glance it was obvious he was a person who placed no particular value on physical robustness, what with his underdeveloped limbs, greyish complexion and pronounced pot belly. I cast an eye across the shelf where he stood, displaying a selection of texts with which I was familiar – Percy, Chatterton, and Burger – along with a title I did not recognise: Arcana Caelestia by Emmanuel Swedenborg.
I asked Mrs Utterson if she would leave us alone.
“Certainly,” she replied. “I will wait for you downstairs.”
The lawyer continued his search as if oblivious to my presence. Taking a position in the centre of the room I asked why he did not open the curtains.
“I am perfectly happy as I am,” came the quietly spoken reply. Moving a few steps along the shelves he lifted his hand to select something, and then thought better of it. I placed a finger under my nostrils to block out the stale stench of countless cigars, understanding now why the corridor outside contained such an abundance of strongly scented flowers. The ceiling and the tops of the walls were tobacco stained, a yellowish colour like a London fog.
“Do you not find it difficult to read in so little light?”
“I much prefer it this way. It helps me concentrate.”
“You'll strain your eyes. Besides, it does no good to surround yourself in gloom.”
Mr Utterson put his hands behind his back and looked down at the floor. “Honestly, Doctor Renfield, we both know you're only her out of a sense of obligation. Is all this necessary? You are keeping me from my studies.”
Reaching over the makeshift bed I pulled the curtains open, tugging at the hooks where they stuck along the track.
“Doctor Renfield!”
“'Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honour God with your bodies. First Corinthians, but I'm sure you already knew that. Open the windows. Move around. Take some air.”
The kitten emerged from the crumpled bedding, mewing pathetically. Dust motes spun in the sunlight. Mr Utterson, I realised, had been using his theatrical search for a book to move farther away from me, towards the corner of the room. Shielding his eyes he muttered something under his breath. Ignoring it I asked what subject he was studying.
“You wouldn't understand.”
“You would do well not to underestimate me, sir.”
“It's not a question of underestimating you. I am taking steps into a unique field of science, something completely new. Comprehending even the smallest part of it would require years of deep and diligent reading.”
“What kind of science?”
“There's no point in attempting to put it into words, and even if I thought I could describe the concept in a way that you could grasp, I still wouldn't share it. The whole thing is too dangerous and demands to be handled with the greatest of care. It changes everything. It changes the way we see man's place in the universe. All I can tell you for sure is that everything you currently believe is wrong.”
Out of curiosity I stepped forward and plucked Arcana Caelestia from its place in the centre of the row. It was a fine edition, bound in a natty livery, with its pages separated here and there by torn slips of paper. I opened it at one of the marked passages. The text was in Latin but I was able to translate a few lines without much trouble: “When a man's interior sight is opened, which is that of his spirit, then there appear things of another life, which cannot possibly be made visible to the bodily sight...”
All at once I became disagreeably light-headed and queasy, no doubt a result of breathing in the thickly polluted air. Replacing the book, I thanked Mr Utterson for his time and hurried out with the kitten trotting along beside me. As soon as I crossed the threshold I heard the rumble of footsteps and the door slammed shut. Pausing for a moment I filled my lungs with the cleansing aroma of the flowers before heading down the stairs.
When I reached the first floor I became aware of a faint clicking sound coming from behind a door that had been left slightly ajar, as if someone was snapping their fingers to draw my attention. I was, of course, somewhat reluctant to investigate further, fearful of intruding on some private domestic scene. However the thought struck me that this, perhaps, was where Mrs Utterson meant when she told me she would be waiting 'downstairs'. Receiving no reply when I knocked, I pushed the door slowly open. To my astonishment, I found the elegantly decorated bedroom to be silent and unoccupied. I pulled the door closed and continued down the stairs.
Mrs Utterson was waiting for me in the hallway on the ground floor.
“Remove his books,” I told her. “His fixation with them is unhealthy. Their presence aggravates his condition. And ensure his windows are kept open for at least a few hours a day. The fresh air will do him good.”
She looked disappointed: “Is that all you
can advise?”
“For the moment, yes. Trust me, it will help. I am an expert.”
Leaving the house I declined the use of the landau and chose to make my way to the station on foot, hoping to rid my clothes of the stink of stale tobacco.
Magdalene in the Trees
JOURNEYING home to Marylebone I shared my train carriage with a wispy-haired gentleman who attempted to engage me in conversation. Stuttering over every second word he struggled his way through predictable comments on the expense of his ticket, the unseasonable weather, the women's suffrage movement. After providing a few cursory replies I took my copy of the Pall Mall Gazette from my bag and hid myself behind its open pages, trying to concentrate on its contents but finding myself unable to do so. My thoughts continued to be taken up by the landscape painting that hung above the Utterson's mantle. Why was I unable to place the location?
I had been staring blankly at the newspaper for a matter of minutes when the answer finally came to me: it was a depiction of an old stone bridge that spanned a narrow stretch of the River Esk, a few miles from the house I had shared with my uncle from the age of twelve. While it was true the painting was somewhat clumsily executed I was nonetheless amazed it took me so long to recognise the subject. I had spent more days there than I could count.
On these summer trips I was invariably accompanied by my uncle's friend Oscar and his daughter Magdalene, a girl roughly the same age as I with dark eyes and wavy black hair. After picking me up from my house in the mid-morning the three of us would travel together in their family's coach to our favourite secluded spot. It was a journey I could still recall decades later, with undimmed clarity: Magdalene by my side, Oscar sitting opposite us and fiddling with his enormous beard, the horse's hooves clopping against the track ahead. It was our habit to list the familiar landmarks as they passed the window: a red pillar box, a small village shop displaying jars of sweets, a row of cottages painted a brilliant white. Part of the road wound along the crest of a deep valley, giving us a spectacular view of a dense wood on the far side. All of this still felt new to me, having spent most of my life up to this point in the missionary settlement in Ceylon, and the countryside of Yorkshire seemed almost impossibly beautiful.
Visitor in Lunacy Page 2